The Great Battle of Baker Street
by eelatan
Summary: A little bit of wintery Sherlock & John fun to warm the cockles of your heart.


_I don't own any of these characters, blardy bla._

_It's snowing in my little corner of the UK tonight and I wondered what might happen if the same was happening on Baker St and the lads had some down-time. Enjoy! :)_

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><p>The city was hushed, eerily quiet under the weight of the blanket of white it was holding. Wave upon wave continued to drift down from the heavy grey sky. No cars passed by and only the occasional pedestrian scurried down the street, dashing against the wind to make it home. The street lights cast a deceptive orange glow over London, losing their feeble battle at trying to warm up her bleak streets. A pair of equally frosty blue eyes surveyed the scene from the window of 221B Baker Street. A pair of thin, pale hands were crossed behind a muscular but lean back which was clothed in a silk robe. The man known as Sherlock Holmes wrinkled his nose and spoke inquisitively.<br>"Why do people find this stuff so romantic and endearing John, explain to me."  
>Doctor John Watson looked up from his newspaper and frowned. John was a military man, brought up in an army family and then trained as an army doctor himself. He saw things in a regimented and logical way but his sensitive spirit gave him a warmth that few people could leave unnoticed. He cleared his throat as he thought about his answer.<br>"I suppose it's because of the connection between snow and Christmas..." started John, gauging Sherlocks reaction. Sherlock stayed in front of the window, watching the tracks of the snowflakes as they melted their way down the window.  
>"...Christmas is a happy, family time and, while it doesn't snow much around Christmas anymore thanks to global warming, people still connect snow with happy memories. In a lot of cases, it reminds people of being children, when life wasn't so hard." John smiled with a distant look just behind his eyes, as if recalling his own family Christmas memories, before Harry became a drinker and before he'd spent a few December 25th's stranded in the middle of the Afghan desert.<br>"I see." Sherlock mused, still none the wiser as to the seemingly random workings of the emotional human mind. John closed his newspaper and set it on the floor beside his chair and sat back, his brows knitted together in contemplation and his finger tips tapping against his chin.  
>"Get dressed." John stated, rising from his chair. Sherlock spun around on his heels, hands still behind his back and eyed John curiously.<br>"Just get dressed. And wrap up." John smiled before leaving the living room and climbing the stairs to his room two at a time. Sherlock was left alone, still confused. He turned back to the window momentarily and frowned. John obviously had a plan.

The pair regrouped in the small hallway at the top of the stairs a while later. Sherlock had slipped into a pair of suit trousers but left his tshirt on and had his blue scarf knotted tightly around his neck. His heavy, long trench coat had all the buttons fastened and the collar flipped up. John had no idea why he had to look mysterious for going out in the snow but figured Sherlocks excuse would be to shield him from the wind. He was pulling his slender hands into a pair of leather gloves as he squinted at John, still desperately trying to figure out what John had up his sleeve. John had been rather more sensible with his choice of clothing, opting for one of his thick, cable-knit jumpers with a pair of jeans and heavy boots. He shrugged himself into his coat, tucking in his scarf before pulling the zipper all the way up to his mouth.  
>"Right, we're going to have some fun." smiled John, loving the vague expression on Sherlocks face.<br>"Whatever do you mean, John?"  
>"You'll see." laughed John as he brushed past Sherlock and made off down the stairs towards the front door. Sherlock followed, for once, acting like the lost puppy. Once outside, John stood in the middle of the road, his eyes towards the sky, a bright smile plastered across his face. Sherlock remained on the curb, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression resembling that of a child unable to get its own way. He watched as John looked up at the sky and cautiously poked his tongue out of his mouth, allowing the freezing snowflakes to settle and melt. He smiled at the childish simplicity of the act and the joy it was bringing to Johns face. He relented and joined John in the middle of the road, eyeing him for a second before turning his own face towards the sky and sticking out his tongue. The snowflakes were cold but every tiny flake that landed on his tongue tasted like they'd fallen directly from heaven. Snow settled on Sherlock's cheeks and eyelashes and he blinked against the drifting ice. John turned to look at him, and unable to stifle his reaction, doubled over laughing. The sight of the great Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective with his tongue poked out, his eyes squeezed shut, his nose wrinkled and snow settled in his dark, unruly curls was just too precious. At the sound of Johns laughter, Sherlock snapped out of his trance and turned to look at him with a scowl.<br>"What's so funny?" Sherlock huffed. John wiped away a tear from his eye and tried to regain his composure.  
>"You! That face you were pulling... so funny!" John exclaimed, giggles pricking the ends of his words.<br>"Well I'm glad you ordinary folk are so easily amused, however, I have far more pressing matters to work on so if you'll excuse me John..." Sherlock trailed off and turned his back to walk towards the front door. He'd walked a mere three steps when he felt a sharp thud against the back of his shoulder and chunks of snow begin to slide down his neck. He closed his eyes and let out an excruciated sigh. As he turned back around he could see John still stood in the middle of the street, an impish grin playing at the corners of his mouth.  
>"You want a war, Watson? You've got a war." smirked Sherlock, pacing back towards him.<br>"You maybe could've used a better turn of phrase but bring it on, Holmes." John smiled back before letting out a rather high pitched squeal as Sherlock broke into a run, picking up a fistful of snow and launching it in his direction.

Upstairs in 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was awoken from her evening snooze by some loud shouting and laughing down in the street. She rubbed her temple sleepily and got up slowly from her chair. On the way to the window, she stoked the dying fire a little and rubbed her cold hands over it. As she drew back the heavy drape, the sight that greeted her was one she would not have expected.  
>"Oh!" she exclaimed to no-one but herself and began to laugh as she watched Sherlock and John charging up and down the street, pelting snowballs at each other. She could see Sherlocks curls were wet and matted with snow and the end of Johns nose was glowing red from the cold. The pair were both smiling from ear to ear as they approached each other breathlessly, their hands out-stretched, seemingly calling a truce on The Great Battle of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson watched maternally over the pair as they shook hands briefly before John pulled Sherlock towards him and launched himself over Sherlocks shoulder, shovelling a handful a snow inside his coat collar. They collapsed to the icy ground in a heap, a tangled mess of wet limbs and flying snow. Mrs Hudson was now quietly giggling to herself as she watched John and Sherlock pick themselves up and dust as much snow off them as they could. She turned away from the window and went to prepare for their return indoors.<p>

John and Sherlock fell through the front door in a gaggle of breathless laughter. Their clothes dripped melted snow all along Mrs Hudsons hallway as they slipped off their shoes and hung up their coats. There were two fluffy white towels folded on the first stair, John reached out to grab one.  
>"Straight from the radiator." John smiled, handing the other to Sherlock. Sherlock dried his face and began to rub the towel over his wet hair while John slung his around his neck. "Kettle's on!" came a shout from Mrs Hudson's flat and the boys smiled, making their way into her sitting room and taking up residence in front of the now roaring fire. Mrs Hudson's warm face appeared from the kitchen doorway and smiled at the pair.<br>"Custard creams?" she asked. Two nodding heads confirmed the choice and she disappeared back to her tea pot. John was rubbing at his ears, trying desperately to warm them up. Sherlock was in the armchair closest to the fire, his legs stretched out so his toes were almost resting on the fire guard, trying to thaw out his frozen digits. Mrs Hudson swiftly returned with a tea tray, full of tea cups and a huge pot of steaming tea. On the other side of the tray was a saucer piled high with biscuits.  
>"Here you go my brave little soldiers." she remarked as she set the tea paraphenalia out on the table. John and Sherlock looked at each other and smiled at the comment. They knew they were lucky to have a landlady like Mrs Hudson. London was full of people out to make a fast buck, landlords and ladies who would gladly just take your money without caring about the state or up-keep of your accommodation. But Mrs Hudson was one of those rare diamonds, one of those people you'd only ever meet one of in a life time. A truly caring soul who still had all her maternal instincts and liked to feel needed.<br>John and Sherlock took simultaneous sips of their hot tea and both let out a comforted 'ahhhh' sound.  
>"I'd say that was a victory for Watson." smirked John, focusing on the antiques programme Mrs Hudson had on.<br>"I think you'll find you're very much mistaken. Holmes - one. Watson - nil." said Sherlock bluntly, setting down his tea cup and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. John could see he was already plotting for a rematch.  
>"Round two tomorrow?"<br>"Got yourself a deal, Watson." laughed Sherlock, launching a floral cushion at John's head.  
>"Boys!" cried Mrs Hudson, looking protectively at her fine china collection in the display case behind John's head.<br>"He started it!" came the unified response as both men jabbed out-stretched fingers in each others direction.

Outside, the snow was finally dying down. For how long, no-one really knew because the weather forecasters were always wrong. But for now, London remained unusually quiet, tucked into its bed of white. Baker Street still resembled the image of a snowy battle ground. Two sets of footprints leading in circles and zig-zagged tracks up and down the street until they lead inside the door of 221B, having eventually found their way home.


End file.
